Chapter Thirty
All of the servers at the bay-side restaurant were smiling. Angel’s gaze narrowed, and she looked around, feeling something must be up. Normally, there wasn’t such a feeling of energy around a bar like this. Locals didn’t really care for tourists, and since tourists made up the majority of the people at the café, the impatience of the hard-working local to anyone with enough time and money to take a vacation came out in body language no matter how rude it was.
She’d always hated that. After all, the people working had no idea why or how the people visiting were there. What if they were there after thirty years of saving for the trip? Or for a funeral? Or because they’d been forced to move for work?
Anyway, that was how it went whether she approved of it or not. So why was everyone here acting so friendly?
Ah, she thought. She had her answer when she noticed a man in a suit making his way through the doors that led to the kitchens. Another two suits, one man and one woman, followed behind him. Management is here. Everyone’s walking the tight rope.
That meant two things. One, they would probably get the best service ever. And two, they would probably have to show their ID’s. She was glad she’d had the forethought to stick hers in her pocket before leaving the hotel. Then again, it was just habit. Years of riding taught you to pack light and find space for essentials. One day she would die and they would find her body with her license, lip balm, keys, and a credit card in one pocket, and her cell phone in the other.
Jake lead her to a booth at the back of the restaurant, nicely tucked against the wall where they would both have a view of the door. She smiled to herself at the thoughtfulness. Every warden wanted a view of the door. It was self-preservation.
But it reminded her of Gabe, too, and the way he always managed to find just such a table. It awakened doubts in her mind.
No sooner had they taken their seats than the waitress was at their table. The young brunette was pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, but unlike most of the smiles in the place, hers was genuine. Angel could understand that. Jake had that effect on women.
Jake ordered for them, and when the waitress heard him ask for two White Russians, she got a glint in her eyes. “Trying to warm up a little, huh?” she asked, moving a smidge closer to Jake’s side of the table.
He leaned back in his seat, draping a strong arm over the back of the booth, and smiled. “I guess you could say that.”
Angel felt her teeth clench.
“Well, I’m sure we can make that happen,” she flirted. “But since you’re ordering alcoholic drinks, I’ll have to get one of the other waitresses over to serve you.” She tried very hard to hide her disappointment in this – and failed. “I’m only twenty.” She said it as if she were proud, almost batting her eyelashes. “But next week’s my birthday. Maybe you should come back then?”
A few more inches, and the waitress would be sitting in Jake’s lap. Angel’s blood boiled. It was hard and fast and spiked through her unlike anything she’d experienced.
She blinked, frowning. Jealousy? Seriously? What the hell? she thought. Since when do I get jealous like this? And furiously so, it would seem. This wasn’t like her at all.
But then she’d never been seated across someone like Jacob Crow before.
Fuck.
She fiercely made herself ignore the waitress and turned her attention to one of the screens on the bar wall. There was a football game on. It was some kind of re-run of a game from last season. Angel looked away from that nearly as quickly, feeling irritated now.
“Not a sports fan?”
Angel returned her attention to Jake, noticing that the waitress was gone, and Jake was watching her with steady eyes. The server had probably gone to switch out with someone who was legally capable of serving alcohol.
“On the contrary,” Angel replied easily, her irritation giving her a whole lot of courage. It always had. “I grew up in a small town in the Midwest. The town had a hockey team; we were quite proud of it. About a week before each big game, the coach would make his boys go to the hospital to have blood drawn and stored. Pints of it.”
Jacob Crow was very still, very attentive. His entire body looked like some gay sculptor’s dream, perfectly relaxed and perfectly predatory. His eyes resembled cut sea glass.
She went on. “He did this so that if any of them were seriously hurt in the game, they would have their own blood on hand for any necessary transfusions.” She paused for effect. “This came in handy at least once every year, and one year it came in handy twice.”
She smiled to herself remembering those games. They’d been a part of the early, good years of her life, the years before the car accident that tore her family apart. She shrugged. “To me, hockey is a game for the well behaved boy who lets out all his frustrations where they belong, on the ice.” Or according to Elena, in the bedroom, she thought. But she was in hockey land now, and wouldn’t be distracted.
In her head, she replayed some of her hockey heroes’ best goals – Mario Lemieux, Jaromir Jagr, Brett Hull, Wayne Gretzky…. “These guys play rough,” she said, unable to help the small smile that still played on her lips. “Pucks hit hard, sticks are unforgiving, and skate blades are sharp. I won’t even go into the fights.” She couldn’t help but shiver at the thought of the strength, speed and finesse involved in the game. She’d always loved it.
She glanced at the bar screen, where the football game was once again being paused for some sort of extra long break where the players did absolutely nothing and the sportscasters babbled at high volume to fill the empty spaces. She tried not to roll her eyes. “As far as I’m concerned, if you’re not giving blood beforehand, it’s not a sport.”
She wasn’t really curious to know what Jake thought of her opinion, and she was a little afraid to find out – maybe he was a huge football meat head, in which case he wasn’t who she’d thought he was…. But she was saved from having to find out when their second waitress chose that moment to appear at their table, and this one wasn’t any less interested in Jake than the last.
Angel fell silent and forced herself not to glare.
“Hi!” the woman greeted happily. Her eyes slipped from Angel to Jake and stayed there. Of course. “What can I get for you two?” she asked.
“Two White Russians please,” Angel replied before Jake could. She smiled a friendly smile.
But when the waitress glanced at her, annoyance flashed in her eyes. “Sure thing,” she said. “I just need to see your ID first.”
Angel hesitated. The waitress was only asking for Angel’s ID. Not Jake’s.
So that’s how it’s going to be, she thought. She wondered whether a nice dose of saliva would find its way into her coffee too. In the spirit of trying her best to make sure that didn’t happen, she kept the friendly smile on her face, pulled her license from her inner jacket pocket, and handed it politely to the waitress.
The thing was, she didn’t usually mind flashing it. Ten years ago, it might have pissed her off to have to show her license every time she wanted a drink, but in all honesty when she had to do it now, it was a downright blessing. She knew she looked younger than she was. A hatred of the sun was partially to blame. And good genes were the other reason. But any reminder that she wasn’t yet wrinkling on the vine was a good thing.
This, however, was different.
The waitress glanced at the license in her hand, glanced at Angel, glanced down at the license, glanced back at Angel, and very rapidly, Angel’s patience boiled away. Finally, the waitress turned the card over, did a drawn-out mental calculation that Angel could almost see, and at last nodded, breathing out a sigh as she placed it down on the table. “Okay then!” she said through her great big smile, straightening up to jot something down on her waitress pad.
She focused her smile on Jake, where it softened into sincerity. “I’ll get your drinks right out to you.” Then she spun on her heel and walked away, putting a decent amount of swing into her hips as she went.